


M is for Manager

by Blinkingkills (alexwhitewell), plingo_kat



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Gen, IT'S NOT MY FAULT, M/M, supermarket au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexwhitewell/pseuds/Blinkingkills, https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bond!” M thunders from the back room. “If you’re lurking about in the condom aisle trawling for women again, I’ll fire you!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which it is a normal day at Sainsbury's

**Author's Note:**

> I blame [blinkingkills](http://blinkingkills.tumblr.com/) for this completely. IT'S ALL HER FAULT. See the post that started it all [here](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/post/36267171589/supermarket-au).
> 
> Edit: Some fantastic people on tumblr have [drawn](http://multi-bear.tumblr.com/post/36326229609) [awesome](http://orb01.tumblr.com/post/36448401136/i-really-cant-with-this-fic-hahah-m-is-for) [fanart](http://absintheaddicted.tumblr.com/post/36397315950/meanwhile-in-00silva-fandom-this-fanfiction) for this fic! If there are more out there that we haven't linked, please feel free to contact either [kat](http://pushthequorumbutton.tumblr.com/ask) or [blinkingkills](http://blinkingkills.tumblr.com/ask) and we'll add it here.

“Bond!” M thunders from the back room. “If you’re lurking about in the condom aisle trawling for women again, I’ll fire you!”

“Bitch!” Bond hollers back. “I’m stocking orange juice!”

“A likely story!”

“If you could both shut up,” Q says, “I’d like to keep my hearing intact.”

“Know your place,” M snaps.

“Yes, ma’am,” Q says. He knows better than to try and talk back; only Bond can get away with it.

 

_“No,”_ Q says when he spots the man walk in.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Silva smiles at him. Like a shark. Like a great white. Like a very hungry great white.

“No,” Q repeats. “…Look, if I tell you where James is, will you pay with actual bills this time? Like, proper bills, fives and tens and no bloody pence-coins.”

“No promises,” Silva says. “Besides, I know where James is.”

“You’re a creepy stalker,” Q calls out to Silva’s retreating back. “And you better say hi to M, or else she’ll be cross.”

Silva waves acknowledgement with his left hand, revealing a ridiculously expensive watch. Q adds ‘Cuban cigar smuggler’ to his list of unlikely occupations Silva could have.

“Your loss,” Q mutters.

 

“James, James.” Silva appears like the actual creeper he is; James can never detect him coming, which pisses him off. “How are you?”

“If you spill something,” James promises, “I will kill you.”

“Oh!” Silva clutches at his heart. “I’m hurt. Would I do that to you?”

“If it meant you could stare at my arse?” James crosses his arms, unimpressed. “Yes.”

Silva shrugs, caught out. “In my defense, you are quite delicious.”

“One day I’m going to file a restraining order.”

“You love me too much,” Silva says.

“Like hell.”

“Mummy loves me.”

“The only good thing about your visits is how much you piss M off,” James concedes. “I’m surprised _she_ hasn’t filed a restraining order.”

“I delete them from the system,” Silva admits.

James has to admire him a little for that. Just a bit.

 

“Oh, it’s you.” M sounds distinctly unimpressed, which is admittedly her default state of being. “Still making a nuisance of yourself, I see.”

“So cruel.” Silva shakes his head. “You never have any remorse.”

“You’re a tit,” M says. “Mooning about like a seven year old boy, pulling on Bond’s pigtails. It’s disgusting.”

“I can’t come to my favorite Sainsbury’s in the world to visit my favorite woman?” Silva pulls puppy eyes that would work on any person other than M.

“One day I will find a way to throw you out on your arse,” M promises. “Permanently.”

 

This is how it starts:

“There was a guy who paid entirely in tuppence yesterday,” Q moans into folded arms.

“A man hit on me yesterday, too,” James says, looking unnerved. “Literally.”

“Oh, this is going to be _good_ ,” Eve says, steepling her fingers. “Do tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand I'm going to bed, so this will be completed tomorrow.


	2. In which Silva meets the Sainsbury's crew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S JUST KEEPS GOING OMG
> 
> HELP

“That’ll be thirteen fifty-eight,” Q says, stifling a yawn. He’d stayed up late the night before coding, and was paying for it now. There are bags under his eyes the size of, of, extremely big things.

God, he’s tired.

“Oh, good,” the man in front of him says. “Even change.”

Q blinks. “Sorry?”

“It’s a particular habit of mine,” the man says, hefting a knapsack onto the counter. It clinks. Q’s mind makes the connection slowly, with great horror: even change + clinking knapsack + peculiar habit = PAYING ENTIRELY WITH CHANGE FUCKING BUGGERY SHIT

He tries to keep the trepidation off his face. Judging by the man’s growing smile, he doesn’t succeed.

“What’s your name?” Q asks, desperately.

“Silva,” the man replies, beginning to count out coins. “One, two, three, four… ten. One, two, three, four… twenty.”

Q knows his eyes are already crazy. He sees James walking past. Silva is looking down at his hands and his change; Q mouths, HELP ME.

James sees him, steps forward, spots Silva, turns on his heel and walks the other way.

Fuck.

 

“So you’d seen him before, then,” Eve says. She’s trying to hide a grin behind her hand. It isn’t working. “What happened, that the great James Bond ran away like a little girl?”

“In my defense,” James says with great dignity, “…Er.”

 

“Hello.” James can tell immediately that this guy is one of the weird ones. He edges away the slightest bit as he turns to face him.

“Hello, can I help you?” James has reliably been told that he makes the phrase sound like he’s about to kill the person he’s talking to, and has therefore practiced the flat tone and icy glare in front of a mirror. It’s quite good; if James saw himself, he’d walk the other way too.

This man just smiles at him. “Oh, please.” He steps closer. “I have a back problem and can’t reach the bottom shelves very well. Would you mind getting… hm, four boxes of macaroni and cheese for me?” There’s a pause. The man’s eyes flick down to James’ nametag. “…James?”

James crosses his arms. “Which brand do you want?”

“Oh, Kraft.” The man waves a hand. “Is that not what everybody buys?”

“Sure,” James grunts, bending over. He grabs four and moves the rest of the boxes up to cover the gap. “Here.”

The man’s grin grows teeth. “I just realized, I only need three.”

James rolls his eyes as he bends down again. “You sure, now? Three?”

“Five?” The man suggests.

James pauses. He grabs five and stands.

“If you want more, get it yourself.”

“I’m quite satisfied,” the man says. Christ. “Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” James turns to leave. There’s—he just—

 

“He swatted you on the arse!” Eve gasps, howling. Q’s shoulders are shaking with silent laughter. James glowers at them all indiscriminately.

“Fuck you.”

 

Eve meets Silva when she’s covering Q’s shift. She recognizes him immediately – blonde hair, nice suit, crazy shirt, eclectic collection of useless groceries.

“You must be Silva,” she says, ringing up his purchases.

“Indeed.” He leans against the counter. “And who might you be?”

“Eve.” She flicks her name badge. “Q’s told me quite a bit about you.”

“Ah, that delightful boy.” They share a smirk. “I hope he’s been saying nice things?”

Eve laughs. “Q? Have you met him?”

“I have. He is intelligent, utterly wasted here. As I’m sure anybody as competent as you are is too, hmm?” 

“Flatterer.” She accepts the bills he hands her and gives him back his change. “You’re much nicer than Q says you are.”

“More handsome, too?” He raises his eyebrows.

“I couldn’t say,” Eve grins. “Go on, get. Have a good day!”

“I’ll be sure to come by more often, now that I know you work here,” Silva calls back on his way out the door.

 

“What?” Q is outraged. “He paid you in bills? _Bills?_ Not bloody tuppence?”

“I guess he just likes me better,” Eve says, smug. 

“You can have him,” James says. “Actually, please. Take him away.”


	3. In which Silva's secrets(?) are revealed

They’re pretty sure Silva and M are some sort of:

“Ex-mobsters. M got out and Silva’s still in it.”

“No, ex- _military_. M was his commanding officer. It was all very sordid.”

“They could be secret agents! Like, MI5.”

“I’m still fond of the Cuban cigar smuggler theory.”

“They’re secret assassins.”

“Or Templars.”

“Oh, not that again. Q, you play too many video games.”

“Hsst! M alert! Look like you’re working.”

M gives all of them the gimlet eye. “I’m actually the head of MI6,” she says, and walks away.

They stare at each other.

“Let’s never mention this again?”

“Agreed.”

 

Q walks with his head down. He keeps wanting to duck behind trash cans or flatten himself behind signposts, but that sort of behavior would just get him noticed faster. He pats the pocket of his jacket holding his newspaper nervously, repeatedly.

Fuck, this is a bad idea.

 

“What does he even _do_ with the stuff he buys?” Eve wonders.

“No idea,” Q says. “Today it was twenty different bags of candy.”

“You could follow him and find out,” James says.

“Me? Why don’t you do it?”

“He’d spot me. And then he’d be insufferable.” They contemplate Silva finding out that James is following him home and shudder as one. Well, James shudders. The other two laugh.

“Eve should do it.”

“What? Why?”

“He likes you best,” Q says. “In a non-creepy way, at least. He almost acts like a real human being around you.”

“If you make me do it, I won’t tell you what he does.”

“She won’t, will she.”

“No, she’ll just gloat at us.”

“I’m _not_ going to follow him,” James says emphatically.

 _”Argh,”_ Q says.

 

He trails Silva to… a group home?

Silva knocks. The door opens. He and the woman inside hug, one-armed, around the shoulders. He kisses her on the cheek. They talk for a bit; Q fidgets. Then Silva hands over the grocery bag, and the receipt. The two hug and kiss again.

Q glances away when Silva leaves, hiding his face. When he looks up again Silva is gone.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit. How the hell did he disappear?”

“Looking for me?” 

Q jumps about a foot into the air. He’s amazed he doesn’t clock Silva in the face, actually, when he whips around and nearly trips all over himself.

“Sorry!” Q realizes abruptly that they don’t really know anything about Silva, except that he’s creepy and probably also very rich. He could be a serial killer. He could slit Q’s throat and stuff him in a dumpster. “Um. Really very sorry. We were just curious. No harm was meant.”

Silva smiles. It’s not particularly reassuring. “I wasn’t aware you were so eager to come home with me.”

“Er,” says Q.

Silva pats his cheek. “So, what is the word? Adorable? Like a puppy.”

“Hey,” Q objects weakly. Honestly, he can’t really say anything. He’s pretty clearly in the wrong here.

Silva’s face goes serious. His hand lands of Q’s shoulder and grips tightly. “Now, let me give you a warning.” He leans close, nearly whispering into Q’s ear. “Do not ever follow me again. Understand?”

Q nods, mute. He doesn’t breathe until Silva is out of sight.

 

“He gives the stuff to a group home,” Q tells James and Eve. “And then he caught me, and I think he could be a serial killer. And he told me to never follow him again, and it was terrifying, so I’m not. The end.”

 

They get over it quickly. This is helped along by Silva, who appears in the supermarket the following day. Q squeaks (“It was a manly noise of alarm!” he insists) and hides behind the cash register. James actually goes up to Silva to apologize.

It happens mostly by Silva standing too close, ordering James to rearrange three entire cereal sections on the bottom shelf, and James rolling his eyes a lot but staying bent over until his back protests.

“I forgive you,” Silva tells Q magnanimously at the register. “Now, are you ready to receive my coins?”

“Oh my god,” Q moans Silva pulls out a handful of one-pence pieces. _”Why me?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This suddenly got serious? No worries, the next planned installment will be back to all crack, all the time.


	4. In which relationships develop (or don't, as the case may be)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way too much research went into this bit. Not that is was a hardship, mind you. (Supercars, unf.)

“Your nails look fantastic today,” Silva says. “May I?”

Eve presents her hand for inspection. Silva cups her wrist, the tips of his fingers under her knuckles and her own resting on his palm.

“Beautiful,” he says. “I admire your manicurist.”

“Yours isn’t bad either,” Eve says. And: “Who does your hair?”

 

“Ah! My love.” Silva holds out his arm like a Victorian gentleman asking a woman to dance. “Will today be the day you allow me to take you away from all this?”

“No,” M says, and walks away.

 

“I’m taking my half-hour lunch break,” Q tells M. “If I’m not back out front by then, feel free to kick me out of the break room.”

“As if I need your permission to evict you from the break room,” M says.

“Yes, ma’am,” Q says, which is his default reply to anything M says.

He bangs away at the algorithm for matrix multiplication on his laptop (Unix operation system, obviously) until his stomach _really_ starts to protest.

His lunch is missing from the refrigerator.

 _”James,”_ he snarls under his breath and turns around. He’s going to strangle that man.

“Would I stick your lunch in the frozen foods section?” James says, smirking when Q finds him.

“I will wreck your credit ratings,” Q promises him darkly. “You’ll have to sell your ridiculous car in order to afford rent.”

“Love you too,” James drawls. Q flips him off.

Q’s lunch is frozen solid. By the time he’s finished microwaving it, his break is nearly over; he swipes a finger over the touchpad of his laptop to wake the screen and shut it down.

“What the—“ He blinks. He _locks_ his computer when he leaves it, who could—

“Oh my god,” Q thumps into his chair. His finger hovers over the keys that will compile and run the program. The program he left unfinished, which is now full of code that he didn’t type, that’s beautiful and elegant and—

“Oh my god, that is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” He slumps a little. “Who the hell did this?”

“Stop looking at porn at work,” James says, striding into the room. “And I saw Silva walk out a little while ago. Did you miss him?”

“Silva?” No.

No, no, no.

 

It’s a source of contention between James and everyone else that James drives an Aston Martin DB5.

“Compensating for something?” Q says.

“But how did you even afford something like that?” Eve says.

“Bloody impractical, is what I call it,” M says.

When Silva finds out, it’s a disaster.

In the next two weeks, every time Silva visits the Sainsbury’s he drives a different supercar. None of them have a net worth of under a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

“Stop drooling,” M tells him when Silva pulls up in a Lamborghini Murciélago. “It’s very unbecoming.”

James actually shifts a little on his feet. “If he’s trying to impress me, it’s working,” he mutters.

“Tell him so, then,” M says briskly. “Then this nonsense can stop.”

James shoots a look at her. “I can’t let him _win_ ,” he says.

He schools his face into bland neutrality by the time Silva walks in the door.

“Good morning, James.” His voice is nearly a purr. James glances from him to the car to the slight bulge of the car keys in his pocket. “Do you like what you see?”

“…She’s not bad,” James says, grudgingly.

Silva leans in close. “Care to come home with me and let me show you all I have to offer?”

James thinks about it. “Only if I can drive.”


	5. In which fucking happens (oh yes it does)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi its me, Blinkingkills from tumblr, and I wrote this chapter, because its faster if we both write. I'm not a very experienced writer but I tried to keep with Kat's style, and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Kat: And she even illustrated it [here!](http://blinkingkills.tumblr.com/post/36413130929/so-uh-i-dont-even)

Uncharacteristically, it's Bond who cracks first.

M finds them going at it in the employee break room when she receives complaints about strange noises coming from the back of the store by disconcerted customers.

James is pushed up against the wall being thoroughly defiled by Silva, who doesn’t even have the courtesy to pause.

“My dear M! How nice of you to join us!” Silva says happily, while James turns progressively deeper shades of red. M just blinks once and shuts the door again.

“Now where were we?”

 

Q happens a week later.

“Hey Q, do you know where th-OH MY GOD.” Eve screeches from the doorway to, yes, the break room.

Q jumps up like he’s been shocked and tries vainly to pretend he wasn’t just blowing Silva. And also that Silva isn’t just standing there smugly with his dick hanging out half hard. Q quickly covers it with a clipboard.

Eve’s shock turns to evil glee. “Oh, wait till James hears about this.” Q’s eyes become even larger. He’s about to give a passionate plea for Eve’s silence when Silva speaks up.

“You can tell James that he can join us any time, any time.”

Q expires quietly in the corner from mortification.

“I definitely will.” Eve says, already imagining the horror on Bond’s face. “I’ll leave you to play, but I’ll be needing that clipboard.” She points to the one that Q is holding in front of Silva’s... you know. Silva relieves the item in question from Q, who’s shock has yet to wear off. Or maybe he’s just imagining a threesome between him, Bond, and Silva.

The clipboard is handed off and Eve gives an appreciative whistle. “You really weren’t joking about _that_ particular asset.”

“Of course not, I never joke about my skills.” Silva winks broadly. Eve swats him playfully with the board and turns to leave, waving jauntily at Q, who is just coming out of his stupor.

“Better get working, that beast is going to need some practice to get down.” The door shuts and Q is left to process what was said. He turns to Silva moments after.

“You told me you LOCKED THE DOOR.”

 

A month passes with Q, James, and even a few of the newer cashiers getting what has now been dubbed “Silva’d” by the employees. Its mostly just Bond or Q though, and one time James _and_ Q.

James’ shirt was inside out and Q’s hair was sticking up in odd angles. They exited the break room quietly and didn’t look at each other, though later in the day they were seen getting into James’ ridiculously expensive (how can a retail worker afford it?) car.

 

One day in particular will be passed down forever in Sainsbury’s history, a tale told in hushed whispers in the dark corners of the feminine hygiene aisle or in the men’s bathroom, where M will (most likely) never venture.

It is a cloudy afternoon like any other. The door opens and all the employees are trying to subtly see who it was that Silva had seduced into the break room today. This time though, it is Silva that comes staggering out, looking vaguely concussed and more than a little disheveled. There are bite marks on his neck and its getting more and more interesting. Q, James and Eve aren’t even pretending to work, so intent are they on seeing who will exit next. Half a minute later, M walks out of the break room, completely composed and very self-satisfied, not a hair out of place. She walks briskly past Silva, stopping only momentarily to address him.

“Next Tuesday, 2pm, don’t be late.” She gets a dazed and blissed out “yes ma’am”.

Following M’s imperious glare around the store everyone hurried back to work, fearful of her wrath.

James looks horrified. “You called her mummy, for fuck’s sake!”

Silva shakes out of his stupor to give him a pleased smirk. “How you do know I don’t still call her that?” Q and James start wailing something unintelligible about brain bleach and clawing at their faces, while Eve looks distinctly unimpressed.

“You said we’d go to the hair salon next Tuesday.” Silva gives her an apologetic smile.

“Not even I dare go against M, my dear.”


	6. In which Sainsbury's does not only ever contain four employees and one crazy customer

For some reason, old ladies seem to be fond of this particular Sainsbury’s. Q doesn’t complain, because:

1) They fuss over him and sometimes bring him biscuits, and  
2) Occasionally they distract Silva from tormenting Q for too long, or even guilt him into paying for things with actual bills.

If old ladies like to fuss over Q, they also like to fuss over Silva. They tell him he’s a sweet boy and that he should buy things other than candy or mac‘n’cheese, and pat him on the arm when he offers gallantly to carry their groceries.

(Silva smirks at James when this happens; when he leaves James is always nicer for at least a couple of hours.)

 

The old ladies are also a great warning system for all the non-regulars who don’t know what to do when Silva appears. Q considers writing a list, but then Silva would see it and be insufferable.

“Oh, now. Are you new here, dear?”

The man in line turns, brow furrowed. “Sorry?”

“That’s Silva you’re standing behind,” Mrs. Hargreaves says. “He always pays in change. You may want to move.”

“Um?” the man says. Then he sees Silva pull out his clinking knapsack. “Oh. All right, then. Thank you.”

Q gives them a thumbs up.

 

And then there are the poor sods who don’t have anybody to warn them off.

“Ack,” one woman says when she sees Silva slowly cornering James near the cucumbers.

 _”Excuse me,”_ says another, shielding her son’s eyes. “There are children present!”

“Thank you,” James tells her as he escapes.

“Uh, can you tell me where the yogurt is?” one man says. Silva has James trapped against a shelf. James glares at both of them.

“Jesus fuck, who the hell pays only in coins?” a woman stuck in line behind Silva says.

“Tell me about it,” Q says.

 

Then there's that one time where a man from Silva’s non-grocery-related life appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short (and a cliffhanger, sorry!) but the next installment will be longer. Bwahaha.


	7. Interlude: In which Q is angry and makes a list

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now this AU has turned into a multimedia work. I don't even know anymore, you guys.

Q = black capitals, James = red, Silva = blue cursive, M = message at the top.


	8. In which Silva's secrets are actually(?) revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE SO TERRIBLE, WE'RE SORRY. Also this really is turning into a multimedia work, keysmashs;ldksldkfajdsf.

“Mr. Rodriguez?” Q, who has been zoned out for the past five minutes when Silva was counting out coins, is snapped abruptly back into the real world.

A man in a business suit is standing behind Silva in line, grocery basket dangling from one hand. He has a faintly receding hairline and a perplexed expression on his face.

“Mr. Rodriguez, hello?”

Silva closes his eyes for a little bit longer than usual before turning around, pile of tuppence coins still cupped in his hand.

“Mr. Tanner,” he says. Q is quietly freaking out in the background, trying to figure out how to page James without broadcasting over the intercom system. Fuck, they should have actually worked out that click language. Or learned Morse code. “How are you?”

“Good, sir,” the newly dubbed Mr. Tanner says. “We’ve been missing you at the office.”

Office? Q pulls out his phone to text James. Eve isn’t in the store; they’ll tell her about this later.

“Oh, you don’t need me,” Silva (Rodrieguez!?????) says.

 

“We’ve got a big client asking for you personally,” Tanner says. “They really liked your latest algorithm for Charles Schwab.”

 

“Eesh,” Silva says. “You know I do not meet clients.”

“They’re insistent, sir,” Tanner says. He looks a little nervous. “Mr. Mallory sent me to get you specifically.”

“And I specifically asked not to be gotten,” Silva says. “CEOs, hm? Think they can always get their way.”

“He told me not to come back unless you were with me, sir.”

 

James appears from behind aisle five. Silva spots him, of course, but doesn’t react like he normally would. Frankly, James is thankful.

“Let’s take this conversation elsewhere, then,” Silva says. He pulls out a platinum Barclay card; Q has a quiet fit behind the cashier.

“Do you want your change back,” Q says, dead-voiced. Silva signs the receipt ‘Tiago Rodriguez.’

“Oh no, keep it,” he says. “You can put it in the tip jar.”

 _Hate,_ Q mouths at his retreating back. _I hate you so much._

James appears by his side as soon as Silva and Tanner are out the door. “So what was all that about?”

“Shut up, I need to Google things,” Q says. “Cover me.”

“I hate manning the cash register,” James says.

“Suck it up. Do you want to know about the man who’s been molesting you or not?”

 

Silva doesn’t show up at the Sainsbury’s for the next two weeks. Halfway through the second week there’s a flash crash in the FTSE 100 that has the news stations all aflutter wondering what happened. Q has a sinking suspicion that he knows.

Everybody tries to pretend they don’t miss him, but frankly life is boring without Silva there to break the monotony. Even James looks a little wilted, and keeps glancing over his shoulder or staring out the window into the parking lot. Q and Eve have a bet about whether he misses being hit on or the fancy cars more.

In the middle of the third week Silva returns, bag of coins in hand and acting as if nothing has happened. The old ladies always in the store exclaim over how gaunt and tired he looks; he laughs them off and charms them into forgetting about his appearance.

“The fuck have you been,” James says.

“Oh, minor crisis at work,” Silva shrugs. “I’m sure our boy has ferreted out all the relevant details. He’s clever that way, don’t you think?”

“Please don’t call Q ‘our boy,’” James says, covering his eyes with one hand. “And yes, he thinks you crashed the stock market.”

“Only for five minutes,” Silva says comfortably. “A bit of a scare is good for those fat cats in the corporate world, hm?”

“Like you aren’t one of them,” James says.

“Ah, but my charming nature makes up for it.” Silva smiles, leans in close enough for his breath to tickle James’ neck. “I did miss you, you know.”

“Go bother Q,” James snipes, but doesn’t move away. Silva pats James’ arse amiably and grabs four boxes of instant rice. He ambles toward the cash register that Q is standing at and drops the bag of coins on the counter.

“Hello, my dear boy. Did you miss me?”

“No one could possibly miss your infuriating personality.” Q grumbles, but it’s with less bite than normal. Silva grins and starts counting out the money.

Two pounds in Q can’t hold it in anymore. “What is it exactly that you do? Are you a programmer? Do you work in finance? How can people that work in finance make so much money? _What do you do?”_

“--Eight pounds, fifty pence.” Silva slides the giant pile over, completely ignoring the questions.

“I’m not ringing you up until you answer me.”

“Is that so?” They stare at each other for what seems like minutes before a pointed cough informs them that someone is waiting in line.

“Oh, cock.”

“Language, darling.” Silva takes the receipt and the four boxes before sauntering towards the door.

“You’ll have to answer me one day!” Q calls out to him.

“I look forward to it.”

 

“Oh, you’re back.” M looks unimpressed. “And here I hoped you’d drowned in the Thames.”

 

“So are you going to tell me what you really do, Tiago?” Eve says.

“If I do, will you hold it over those lovely boys you work with?”

“You bet I will.”

“Very well, but you must agree to come with me to a company event. I warn you though; they’re quite dull.”

Eve raises her eyebrows. “Only if you provide the dress.”

“Of course, of course. We can make it a day out, shop beforehand.”

“You know how to treat a girl right. Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

“Done.” They shake hands.


	9. In which slander and lies are spread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you see the link to Gangnam Style, play it as you read (if you don't find it too annoying.) IT ENHANCES THE EXPERIENCE, OKAY. Also we couldn't get the link to open in a new tab, so be aware of that.
> 
> AND SOMEBODY MADE A THING FOR SILVA'S [TRENCH COAT OF VILLAINY](http://siggyunlimited.tumblr.com/post/36609356204/m-is-for-manager-totally-worth-it) I CAN'T. And also a [turtleneck of seduction](http://siggyunlimited.tumblr.com/post/36614491943/there-needs-to-be-a-whole-line-of-silva-themed) I AM DEAD YOU GUYS. YOU ARE ALL AMAZING.
> 
> And now there's a thing for [the Gangnam Style reference](http://stonyxcapiron.tumblr.com/post/36729359306/oppa-silvas-style-from-m-is-for-manager-fiction) omg.

Winter rolls in, and it’s even colder than usual. Silva has taken to wearing what everyone has unanimously agreed should be dubbed the Black Trenchcoat of Villainy(TM) and even M admits that he cuts a fine figure (where ‘admit’ means she is seen glancing at Silva for about half a second longer). James catches an iPod sticking out of one the pockets during one of Silva’s ritual personal space violations and can’t help but wonder. He tells Q and they start plotting.

“Eve,” James drawls, trying to sound casual.

“No, I know that tone. It’s the one where you want to rope me into one of your plots involving Silva. Don’t even try.” Eve says, eyes narrowing.

“I just want to know what music Silva listens to. You know you’re curious too.” James isn’t whinging, of course not.

“You could just _ask_ him. Like a normal, well adjusted person would.”

“He’d just lie and say Spanish opera or something.”

“How do you know he doesn’t actually like Spanish opera?”

“Because he’s Silva.” Eve folds her arms. 

“So what are you going to do?” James shuffles a bit.

“Well, we were hoping you could... pickpocket his iPod. Its in the left pocket of his trenchcoat of villainy.” 

“ _We?_ Is Q in on this too? God, you two are mental.” Eve starts to turn away when James pulls out a dvd box set of Breaking Bad.

“We have payment.” James waves the box around. “You’ve been wanting this for months, haven’t you?” 

There is a long pause with only the sound of James shaking the set lightly before Eve snatches it from him. “No promises.”

James smirks. Got her.

 

Two weeks pass with no results. Q and James are beginning to think that they might have been gypped when they find an iPod touch sitting on Q’s laptop in the break room, along with a note: “Don’t ask me again. -E" 

Q swipes the screen. Locked, of course it is. He plugs it into his computer and within a few minutes, James and Q are looking at Silva’s playlist.

“Holy shit.” James’ smirk is growing uncontrollable. This is better than anything he could have imagined. “Wait, is that Call Me Maybe?”

“Silva listens to contemporary pop?” Q scrolls through the music with increasing amusement. They are halfway through cackling over the Justin Beiber album when suddenly the screen goes black and red letters pop up one by one.

**NOT SUCH A CLEVER BOY.**

Q’s laptop starts blaring [Gangnam Style](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0) louder than his speakers are technically supposed to be able to. The whole supermarket can probably hear it. 

“Shit shit SHIT!” Q snaps the laptop shut, but the musics just plays on. Both of them wince.

“Shut the door?”

Q opens the lid gingerly as soon as James does so, hitting the ‘lower volume’ button repeatedly. It doesn’t work. In fact, none of his keys work, nor does the mousepad; his computer is completely locked.

There is no way to remove his computer’s battery without a screwdriver that they don’t have with with them, so he tries forcing a shutdown by holding the power button. None of this works; the only course of action is to hope the battery dies soon. He doesn’t bet on it since the screen is turned off to conserve as much energy as possible.

They wrap the laptop in a bunch of clothing from the lost and found bin and put it in Q’s locker. Unfortunately, the song can still be heard around the store if you listen carefully. Five minutes after they appear to have gotten relief, whatever took over Q’s computer finds its way into the the Wi-fi and every smartphone in the store starts to play Gangnam style at full volume.

Q’s face goes white. “The customers,” he whispers.

“M is going to kill us.”

James eyes the break room door. “I could build a barricade.”

“There’s no bathroom in here,” Q moans. “We wouldn’t last more than five hours.”

“There are water bottles,” James points out. _Heeeeey sexy ladyyyyy,_ emerges from his trouser pocket.

“What’s this racket?” M says, walking through the door. Q steps behind James, as if that will protect him from her wrath. “You, boy. What’ve you done?”

“It wasn’t me!” Q wails. “It was bloody Silva!”

She narrows her eyes. “Bond?”

James visibly wavers. “We may have stolen his iPod,” he admits, finally. “Ma’am.”

 

They have to apologize to all the shoppers. Q manages to convince them that it was just a mean spirited prank played by someone who was recently laid off. By closing time, he’s recited the same paragraph so many times it’s burned into his tongue. M docks an entire week of their pay. (“You’re lucky that I don’t just fire you both.”)

“Yes, ma’am,” they say miserably. Q’s computer is still playing as they leave.

“I can’t take the Tube like this,” he says, hugging the backpack holding his laptop to his chest as if it will help muffle the sound.

“There is no fucking way you are getting into my car with that.” James’ phone has stopped playing the music, as he often forgets to charge it during the night. “I’m going to have this sodding song stuck in my head for the rest of eternity already.”

The ride home is hell. Everyone on the Tube gives him the stink eye and all Q can do is sink deeper into his parka, trying to hide his face.

 

Silva walks into the store the next day and is assaulted by a crazed Q, who has spent most of last night trying to fix his laptop to no avail. (It is now disassembled.) The sound of Gangnam Style still wafts through the air.

 _“We’re sorry, I’m so sorry make it stop please.”_ Q sinks to the floor and wraps his arms around Silva’s leg, nearly in tears. Silva pats his hair like a dog.

“What did we learn, hmm?”

The sleep deprivation makes it easier to say. “You’re better than me, and also we shouldn’t steal your stuff, oh my god just turn it off.”

Silva pulls out his own phone (silent, fuck the man) and types rapidly with his thumbs. The music shuts off. Finally, _finally_ , there is silence.

“There now, that wasn’t so bad.” He smiles, sunnily. Q resists the urge to bite his thigh.

 

Some time later, when most of the pain has worn off, James asks Silva, “Do you really listen to Justin Beiber?”

“I find his words quite moving.” There is an almost imperceptible flush on Silva’s face. James has to fight every instinct in his body not to make fun of him.

“....O-oh. That’s...nice.”

Silva rolls out of the bed (they are in James’ flat; Silva refuses to tell James where he lives, even after they found out his real name) and heads toward the bathroom humming Rebecca Black’s Friday. James leans back into the pillow. 

“Crazy fucker.”

 

November isn’t a good month. A scant week and a half after the Gangnam Style incident, a rumor goes around that Silva wears dentures. James denies accusations that he started it vehemently.

“I know exactly how you feel, dear,” Mrs. Jones says, patting Silva on the arm.

“Sorry?” Silva says, relieving her of her heaviest groceries. “Let me take that for you.”

“Oh, teeth troubles.” She looks around, making sure they’re alone. “Dentures, you know. So troublesome.”

Silva’s brows furrow. “Sorry?” he says again.

“You’d don’t have to say anything,” Mrs. Jones says. “I understand.”

Later Silva intimidates the whole story out of Q, who agrees to spill all if Silva pays in bills for the next seven times he’s in the store. Q wanted to hold out for ten, but seven is all he can manage.

“So,” James says when they pass each other in the alcohol aisle. “I’ve got two bottles of scotch. Trade you for a go at the Maserati.” Silva regards him with a cool glance.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time today.” He leaves James standing there perplexed.

 

“I told him,” Q says over a cup of tea in the break room. “Sorry.” (He really isn’t.)

“The Maserati,” James broods. “I fucking promised to blow him in the back seat.”

“ _Don’t_ want to know,” Q says. (He sort of does.)

 

“He’s got bad teeth, you gits,” Eve says later when they all go out for a drink. “Some genetics thing. He’s very sensitive about it.”

“Well how the hell was I suppose to know,” James says. He’s all but pouting.

“You should apologize,” Q says, nodding sagely. “Swallow your pride and just do it. It’s less painful.”

Eve snorts into her beer.

“Shut up,” both James and Q chorus. They flush, remembering the times they got caught in the break room.

 

“So it’s been brought to my attention that I may have been...” James gropes for a word. “Insensitive.” Shit, _insensitive_. He’s never been _sensitive_.

Silva turns his head away, pointedly ignoring him.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” James grits his teeth. He isn’t used to apologizing. “Just... I didn’t think.”

Silva makes him wait another couple of agonizing minutes before he relents. 

“I don’t think you ever do, James.” There is a small smile tugging at his lips. “Lucky for you, I find it, hm, endearing.”

Mentioning the Maserati probably isn’t a good idea. “So you forgive me,” James says instead.

“Ah!” Silva grins. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Will Mummy be in the break room today?”

“Christ, don’t _call_ her that!”

 

He ends up blowing Silva by the microwave. He doesn’t care; the Maserati is his for the weekend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This installment may be the last you see for a while, as we are college students and have finals coming up. If we can we'll write; if not, there will be a winter holiday special around (you guessed it!) the end of December. I'm sure we'll both be fairly active on Tumblr, though.


	10. In which Q goes to Uni and Silva shows up everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo. Somehow this was written before James and Silva having sex in the Maserati? Idk, guys. Blame blinkingkills, she started this section.

i.

There is a guest speaker at Q’s seminar. He decides to sit in the back of the room as usual, since most classes are child’s play to him. He usually spends his time working on his own programs. The professor is very excited, something about a programmer specializing in HFT algorithms. The guest speaker is from Spain, the professor says. He doesn’t give many speeches and they should be honored he even agreed to even come.

…

Wait.

Spain. Programmer. HFT.

 _No._ It can’t be--

Shockingly recognizable bottle blonde hair pokes through the doorway. Silva strides into the room like he owns the place, like he enters every room actually. Q can’t help but stand up abruptly, nearly knocking over his laptop.

“Shit, _you_ ?”The entire hall turns to stare at him and he reddens, sitting back down as quickly as he stood. Unfortunately it’s too late and everyone is whispering, as Q hardly ever makes himself known in his courses.

Silva looks up at Q and smiles, but doesn’t otherwise acknowledge him. The presentation is amazing although half the class is completely lost by the time Silva gets halfway through. Even the teacher looks a little glassy eyed.

After the various well-wishers and favour-curriers that clustered around Silva have left, Q gets up from his seat.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he hisses, acutely aware of his professor standing in the corner of the room, watching them curiously.

“My dear,” Silva says expansively, _loudly_. “Can I not visit my favorite little genius?”

“I’m not your anything,” Q says in a harsh whisper. “Why aren’t you bothering James? He actually likes you.” Well, like is a strong word. It’s more resigned tolerance.

“But I like you,” Silva says, brows lifted. He utterly fails to look innocent. “And your clever fingers, and your quick mouth, hm?”

“Oh my god, my professor is _right there,”_ Q moans, bowing his head. “Please, please shut up.”

“I am hurt,” Silva says, grinning. He isn’t any quieter. “After all the time we’ve spent together.”

The urge to strangle him is overwhelming. “You mean the time you spend _counting change?_ ” Q says. It’s possible his face is turning purple. “I hate you so much.”

“Is that what young people call it nowadays? Then yes, we were indeed _counting change_.” The grin on his face shouldn’t be able to get any bigger, but it does. Q wishes the ground would open up and swallow him. Or Silva. Silva belongs in a bottomless abyss.

“Professor!” Q says, desperation apparent. Anything is better than this torment. “I’m just... going to go now.”

“Wait a moment,” Professor Hawking stops him. “How do you know Dr. Rodriguez?”

Damn. Professor Hawking _likes_ Q, he must really want to know. “Er,” Q says.

“I have seen his work,” Silva says, coming to his rescue. (The thought makes Q ill.) “It is quite impressive, for a student.”

“Yes, that,” Q says. He sounds like an idiot, but he doesn’t care.

“We also had sex.”

Q chokes; Professor Hawking laughs. Silva merely waits patiently as the man’s laugh grows more tentative, finally trailing off altogether. He must realize that he’s the only one that’s amused.

“You’re... serious?”

“Leaving!” Q announces, and practically pushes Silva out of the room. “Bye, professor!”

“How do you feel about, what is the word, quickies in closets?” Silva asks just before the door closes. Q fights the urge to kick him where it hurts. He’s going to start skipping more lectures from now on. Professor Hawking will probably look at him funny for the rest of the term.

ii.

They end up in Q’s flat. Q is tugging frantically at Silva’s stupid Prada shirts, but he’s warded off firmly.

“These cost a lot of money, dear. You have to be careful.”

“Like you’re lacking in money.” Q slows down anyway, because the last time he popped some buttons off Silva’s shirt he was tied to the bedposts and didn’t get to come for hours. By the end of that session he was a blubbering mess. He’s still not sure if he wants that to happen again or not, so he doesn’t risk it. They are so busy divesting each other of their clothing that they don’t notice the creak of the door opening.

“Oh jesus,” A female voice deadpans. Q freezes, eyes squeezed shut. Of course. “Brah, he’s like fifty, what the hell, man?”

Silva frowns ever so slightly. “I am forty five, little girl. So rude, so rude.”

“She’s from America, they can be that way.”

Courtney sniffs. “Way to stereotype, brah. Hawai’i is totally different from the mainland.”

“Thank you for the lesson in racial tolerance, but I’m a little _preoccupied_ at the moment, do you mind?”

“This is _our_ apartment, remember? You need to warn me before I get sexiled, christ.” She sighs. “Fine, go have fun with your sugar daddy, and make sure he buys you a bunch of nice things -- like a new computer setup, maybe, because yours is really depressing to look at. It would be nice if you could keep it down, too. _Some_ people have to study.” Courtney backs out of the room. 

“By the way, I’m telling everyone that your boyfriend is like two times your age!” 

Q wants deny Silva’s boyfriend status, but saying that may give her the wrong idea so he lets it go. He thinks its quite mature of him to do so. Silva is doing things to his neck that is making him lose concentration anyway.

Silva’s hand pushes roughly against the growing tent in Q’s boxers. He approaches sex with a single minded ferocity Q only sees when Silva is coding or fucking. When this intensity is unleashed on the cyber world, Q feels sorry for whichever poor sod pissed him off.

“Good boy,” Silva murmurs, sucking a mark into Q’s neck. “Now... do you want to be taken here, against the wall, or in your bedroom?”

“Its not as if you ever listen to my suggestions.” Q gripes, but his complaining is cut off when Silva’s hand finally, _finally_ slides under his boxers.

“Jesus fuck,” Q breathes, tilting his head back against the wall. Silva has warm hands and calluses on his fingertips.

“Shall I choose, then?” Silva says. He squeezes, lightly, then draws his fist up and down in an agonizingly slow movement.

“Oh, you bastard,” Q breathes heavily, hips pushing forward. “Here is good, just do it.”

“That is not very polite,” Silva says, lips wet against Q’s skin.

“Ask me if I care,” Q gasps, and then Silva is laughing and dancing his fingers along Q’s cock, and Q has to lock his knees before they give away, and if Silva makes him come in his pants Q is going to be so angry--

_Dammit._

 

Silva decides that he’ll take Q against the wall _and_ his bed, so Q braces his palms on the off-white stucco and arches his back, feet spread wide as Silva licks him open, slow twisting laps of his tongue that have him clenching and wanting more.

 _“Ah,”_ Q says when Silva pushes a finger in, slicked only with spit. It burns, and Q bites his lip until the pain transmutes into pleasure. “Tell--tell me you have some lube for your ridiculous--”

He has to break off to swallow a moan, eyes squeezed shut.

“Your _ridiculous_ cock,” he finishes, voice hoarse. “I can’t take you like this.”

Silva bites him on the flank in reproach, but his finger withdraws. There’s a sound of rustling cloth, and the tearing of foil. Q nearly jumps at the new, slippery touch on the back of his thigh.

“Travel packets?” His voice is remarkably steady; he congratulates himself. “Really?”

“Useful, no?” Silva says, pleased. His fingers trail higher, and Q can’t help but bend his knees a little and push back into the touch. “Mm, so responsive.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” Q says, blinking down at the floor. His glasses are hanging right at the tip of his nose, so the world has a large black bar through it, the bottom half clear and sharp while the air above is a blur.

Silva laughs. “So impatient.” His finger teases around the edge of Q’s hole, just enough pressure for him to feel. God.

“I’ll do this myself,” Q threatens. The effect is lessened by the way his voice wavers in the middle of the phrase. His cock is waking up again too, still sensitive from his previous orgasm. He hisses through his teeth. “Come _on_.”

Silva sighs exaggeratedly. Q doesn’t mind; the brief tightening of his grip on Q’s hip betrays his own arousal. “Very well.”

Q chokes as Silva pushes in two fingers, fast and ruthless, not stopping until they’re in past the second knuckle. It feels unbearable, like he’s being split open, and he hangs his head and lets out a harsh breath, trying to relax.

“Easy,” Silva says, like he’s trying to tame a wild animal. His free hand runs down Q’s leg, soothing. “Let me in, _meu amor,_ you are doing very well...”

“Fuck you,” Q means to say, but the words are lost in a gasp as Silva twists his fingers, stretching him.

“That is the plan, yes.” Silva agrees, breath warm on the small of his back. Q pants, focusing on the press of the wall against his palms and the strain in his shoulders, not the ache in his cock or the pressure in his arse, opening him up and filling him and _fuck how did he find his prostate so fucking quickly, fuck._

Silva chuckles, pressing again. Q jerks, a bug pinned on a card, a whine building up in his throat. He wants more but he can’t get his mouth to work; it’s only letting out breathy noises and guttural gasps, nothing verbal at all.

“So good for me,” Silva says softly, and stands. Q re-adjusts himself so that his forearms are braced against the wall, head resting on on his wrists. His glasses are pressed into his face and his curls are plastered to his forehead with sweat. He isn’t even fully undressed.

Silva presses up behind him. He already has a condom on, and Q wonders distantly when he had time to do that. Then he isn’t thinking at all because the head of Silva’s cock is snubbing up against his hole, a blunt pressure that has him bearing down and moaning helplessly on one long exhale.

Its pretty much a blur after that.

 

The fourth time Q comes, its on the bed and he almost loses consciousness from the intensity. Silva didn’t let up at all in between his orgasms. His moaning has been reduced to a quiet high pitched keening. All he can do is grip the sheets desperately until Silva’s ridiculous stamina gives out. 

Q lies panting on the bed as Silva pulls out and ties off the condom, tossing it with a light flick of the wrist into the bin behind him. Q’s limp body is lifted into Silva’s lap. He falls asleep to Silva stroking his hair. 

Two days later a huge box is delivered to his apartment. Seeing all the cutting edge equipment inside is nearly better than sex--no, definitely better than sex. Q should probably feel dirty for accepting such an expensive present, and he does, but only for about three seconds. Then he sees the sixteen gigabyte ram and its all over. 

Courtney can laugh all she wants. Q doesn’t care.


	11. In which Sainsbury’s throws a friendly non-denominational winter holiday party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a chapter that is, like, the equivalent length of four of the previous chapters?? IDK GUYS ALEX WROTE A LOT THIS TIME. 
> 
> Happy New Years!

The middle of December is when all of the crazies start to visit.

“It’s Christmas,” Eve says wisely. “People go mad because of the music.”

“I _told_ you we should play obnoxious holiday songs all month,” James says.

“Not all of us masochists,” Q retorts. “Besides, M instituted a policy, remember? Non-denominational holidays.”

“It’s _Christmas_ ,” James says. “No one bloody cares about, about--”

“The birth of Jesus,” Eve supplies.

“--the birth of Jesus,” James says. “The whole point is that you get presents.” He sounds genuinely excited about the presents. He’s been extra nice to Silva the entire month and Q suspects he wants Silva to give him a car, the shameless bastard.

“What are you, five?” Q says. “Who gives you good presents? The only thing I ever get from people other than myself are awful Hanukkah sweaters and ridiculous socks.”

“Jewelry for me,” Eve chimes in glumly. “Never good jewelry either, mind. The ridiculous flashy stuff you never wear.”

“I got a gun, once,” James says. “That was nice. Its the same one the guy in the movies uses.” Everybody knows who he’s talking about.

“Sociopath,” Q says.

“Is that even legal?” Eve adds.

“No,” Q deadpans. “No it isn’t.”

They turn to stare at James. James crosses his arms.

“What?”

They decide it’s better not to ask.

The jingle from the door chimes, interrupting their conversation. Q narrows his eyes.

“Oh, shit.”

“Is it him?”

“It’s him. Not Silva -- Scarface.”

“That’s offensive.”

“You’re offensive!”

“Shut up, who’s going to deal with him?” They look at each other- or they would have, if James was still there. He’s already fled, the coward.

“Nose goes,” Eve says, and places her finger on her nose. “Good luck, Q.”

“I hate all of you,” Q says to the air, and braces himself.

 

Le Chiffre is worse than Silva. Much worse.

For one thing, he’s always drunk. He also insists on being called “The Chief”. What kind of person does that anyway?

“Oh, it’s you.” Chiffre squints at Q, who keeps his most bland appropriate-for-storefront-customer-service face on.

“Yes, sir,” he says. “Do you need any assistance?”

“Caviar,” Chiffre demands, swaying a little. Lovely, he’s smashed again.

“We don’t carry caviar,” Q says, silently praying that the man will leave without a fuss. “Sorry.”

He’s not sorry. Also, Chiffre doesn’t leave.

 

(It actually takes three months and an intervention by Silva for him to go away completely, but that’s another story.)

ii.

James is outside putting up holiday light decorations outside when he hears a familiar voice. It’s testament to how much time Silva spends at the store that James recognizes him from just an appreciative hum. He schools his face into a scowl and looks down at Silva from the top of the ladder, who just looks quite content to stay where he is.

“What are you doing?” Silva smiles his usual smile and waves his hand dismissively.

“Oh, just enjoying the view.” He leers up at James’ arse with a look of incongruous serenity. It takes every fiber of James’ being not to roll his eyes. He fixes the last of the holiday lights in place and climbs down the ladder, fully expecting a pat on the behind when he reaches a level low enough for Silva to reach. When it does in fact come he feels vindicated instead of annoyed. He turns to face Silva and rummages in his pocket and pulls out an invitation. It’s only slightly creased. James is inordinately proud of himself.

“For you,” he says, staring Silva straight in the eyes. Silva arches a blonde eyebrow (what does he do to get them that color anyway, fuck).

“Oh? Why, thank you, James,” he says, voice a low, lion-like purr. He opens the garishly decorated card (they all fought over what to draw on it and ended at an impasse) and sees that its an invitation to the employee non-denominational winter holiday party, because that’s what is politically correct these days. The card says its from Eve, James, and Q, who has reluctantly put his actual name on the card. At Silva’s growing smile, James folds his arms defensively.

“If we didn’t invite you you’d crash the party anyway, so I decided to save you the trouble and give you a card. You can bring a plus one if you want.” 

Silva squints at the invite. “The back room? You wish to hold a party in that storage closet?”

“Not everyone is a rich asshole like you. Some of us just work retail.” But Silva is already heading towards M’s office, leaving James behind to stew in growing horror. Any party planned by Silva will be grossly lavish and way too rich for the rest of them to be remotely comfortable. 

He really should have just taken Q’s advice and just let Silva crash the party.

iii.

The party ends up being... oddly well executed. It’s not the five-star hotel convention hall James feared, but instead a rented space in a community center decked out in non-denominational trinkets. It’s festive and casual and how did Silva ever come up with this himself?

“Hello there, I’m afraid you are much too early, I’m told the party starts at six, not four.” A soft feminine voice with a french accent interrupts James pondering. He turns around to see--

He must stare a little too long in awe because the woman starts to frown, hand reaching toward her obviously very expensive purse. James shakes himself and scrambles for words.

“I--uh. Silva. Where?” Well that got cocked up quickly. She looks at him suspiciously but her hand pauses.

“You mean Tiago? Why he insists on that ridiculous name is beyond me. He’s not here right now, did you expect him to plan a party himself?” James flounders about. It does sound rather silly for a computer expert to be planning a party if he actually stops to think. Which he didn’t really.

“Uhm. Are you his planner?” She looks insulted and slightly disgusted.

“Work for that insufferable oaf? No, I’m the company’s event coordinator. This is a favor, he owes me now.” She looks at James for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing, and then her eyes widen. “You are James.”

“Er.” He’s about to ask when the woman tugs him into a corner. 

“How is someone like you with Tiago? You aren’t after his money, are you? He spends too much money on people he wants to sleep with and neglects communication.” This time it’s James’ turn to look insulted.

“Miss, I don’t even know your name and you’re accusing me of being a gold digger? Besides, there isn’t enough money in the entire world to make Silva less annoying.” She snorts.

“That much is true.” A delicate hand held out. “My name is Severine.”

James hesitates before taking the offered hand. “Would it matter if I _was_ with him for his money? It sounds like you couldn’t care less about what happens to him.” Severine looks a bit sheepish.

“I did date him once.” James starts to grin.

“This I’ve got to hear.”

iv.

Silva finds the two of them an hour later sitting in folding chairs and laughing.

“-Gangnam Style, really? His musical taste has really only gotten more appalling.” 

James looks up when Silva enters. “I actually thought you might have been playing up your eccentricity for show, but you really are just ridiculous, aren’t you.”

“I see you’ve already taken the time to get to know each other.” He sounds jealous. It’s almost adorable how pouty he’s getting.

James gets up and walks over. “You shouldn’t just leave your ex’s where just anyone can find them. Though I do have to admit, you have very good taste.” 

Severine laughs and joins the two of them. “At least this one has a sense of humor and,” she looks James up and down, “isn’t hard on the eyes either.”

They grin at each other and Silva looks more and more sulky. James notices and rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to run off with the event coordinator, jealousy doesn’t become you.” He whispers something into Silva’s ear that gets the man smiling again and he clasps James shoulder.

“Well James my dear, you may continue to loiter and chat with Severine if you wish, but I came in to inform her that the catering has arrived.” Severine frowns.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier? Its rude to keep them just waiting outside.” She pushes past them and out the double doors. James watches her go, then turns to Silva.

“How did you get her?”

“It is a tale fraught with one too many missteps and regrets.” James grunts incredulously.

“You are always so melodramatic, this isn’t Downton Abbey. You just fucked up because you were too much of an asshole.” Silva smiles at his answer.

“Such a way with words, James.”

“I don’t sugarcoat.” Silva bumps his nose against James’ ear affectionately. James just sighs, but there is an almost imperceptible smile on his face. 

“You love me.” Silva says, tone teasing. James shoves at him half-heartedly.

“Let’s not go that far.” There is a small scuffle as they push at one another, more playful than anything. 

“Ahem.” Severine is back. “Boys, if we are done? The doorway needs to be clear, and if you are both going to stay here you might as well be useful and help the caterers carry their things in.” Silva looks like he’s about to protest but at the look Severine gives him stays quiet instead. He and James shuffle out the doors, with Silva muttering under his breath something about “Prada” and “custom”.

 

Q and Eve are among the first to arrive at the venue, having carpooled in Eve’s jeep. No one knows how she’s able to find parking in London with such a big car; there are whispers of pocket dimensions.

“I have to say, I was expecting something much more of an eyesore.” Q says as they walk in. “This is actually quite sensible.” Eve nods.

“Its almost like he thought like a normal person for once.”

“That’s because Silva’s ex organized it.” James comes out of the side restroom fixing his collar but doesn’t quite manage it in time for Q to make a face. 

“Really, James?” He eyes the hickey on James’ neck.

“We locked the door this time!” Q sighs. Then he realizes--

”Wait, Silva’s ex?” James jerks his thumb toward Severine. She’s taking with the catering and directing the final touches to the community hall. Eve hums in appreciation.

“He has good taste in the ladies. The men on the other hand...” She glances at James and Q with a raised eyebrow.

“Shut up,” they chorus in return.

Silva walks into the room. “James, I-” He stops abruptly, staring at Q’s sweater. 

Q’s family is jewish and they send him garish blue and white decorated hanukkah sweaters every year. Its a testament to Q that he actually wears them with some degree of pride.

“Oh dear, you’ve broken Silva. I told you that sweater would be too much.” Eve says as Silva backs out of the room looking horrified and James fights a snicker.

“He’s always been allergic to bad fashion.” Severine says as she joins them. She introduces herself to Eve and Q. “I’m sure Tiago thinks he’s being subtle when he buys people clothes under the guise of ‘needing it for a party’.” Q and James pause for a moment before turning red. Severine looks at them in amusement.

“Subtle enough for some, it seems.” Eve grins.

Silva comes back in with a very expensive and soft looking mahogany sweater. He hands it to Q with a pleading look on his face. Q takes the clothing but doesn’t put it on. 

“This is retribution for paying me in coins for the last year.” Silva moans and hides his face in James shoulder.

v.

The party is a hit. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves and the food is great. Q tries to think of a way to sneak leftovers home. Eve and Severine hit it off and spend the night talking about hair, nails, and how much they are looking forward to the final episodes of Breaking Bad.

Silva has cornered James next to the drink station, the food counter, and even while he was talking to M. He tries to kiss M as well but backs off when a plastic fork appears near his jugular.

He does give her a present though, and James almost chokes on his lemon chicken. It’s a rather ugly desk ornament of an English bulldog, yet for some reason M seems satisfied with the offering. It must be an in-joke.

The party winds down and people start trickling out. An hour later its just the Sainsbury’s crew (minus M, who claimed she had better things to do and left) and Silva, with Severine present as well since she needs to organize cleanup. Silva pulls out a box of presents from under a table. The first is a large bag for Q.

“I’m slightly worried,” Q says as he unties the bulging bag. Chocolate coins come pouring out before he can get it shut again. _“Fuck!”_

“I thought you liked my coins.” Silva says innocently. “It is a treasure hunt, since you appreciate puzzles so much. Don’t lose any of them or you won’t be able to solve it.” (Q spends two days being taken through progressively more difficult riddles. The end prize is 1000 pounds in credit to his choice of electronics website; he sends an incoherent Skype message of gratitude and rage to Silva when he finds out. He enjoyed the hunt more than he would ever admit, though.)

Eve gets a Blu-ray set of Game of Thrones signed by the entire cast. She makes a sound akin to “aslkdnalsalwe” and hugs Silva, kissing his cheek. 

“How did you get them all to sign it?” Q asks while Eve croons over the discs.

“Oh, I know someone,” Silva says vaguely.

James eyes his present with trepidation. Its a simple white envelope with his name written on it in Silva’s elegant penmanship. He opens it and there is a business card to a high end auto mechanic.

“You bought your Aston Martin much cheaper than it originally cost since it was badly in need of repair. You’ve done admirably but now its time to get it to a professional. That place will restore your vehicle at no cost to you.” Silva says, pointing at the card.

“I...” Q looks at Bond suspiciously.

“Are you crying? You really are obsessed with your car.” 

Silva opens his mouth to gloat, but is interrupted by James pressing his mouth against his. Eve and Q just sigh. “Leave it to cars to get James horny.”

“James-no-wait, I have to... _James_.” Silva manages to extricate himself from James’ over-enthusiastic thank you, slightly breathless. 

He stumbles over to Severine, who regards him with a cool glance. “My dear--”

“I should hope you have something good for me.” Silva hands her an envelope as well, but this one is larger and more official, used to hold legal documents. She opens it and pulls the papers out. There is no reaction other than a slight widening of her eyes.

“How did you know?” Silva shrugs.

“Oh, I know someone,” he repeats. He holds his hand out and after a beat, Severine takes it. “I look forward to your successes.”

“Stop it. You still owe me for the party by the way, I’m not letting you off just because of this.” She slips the papers back into the envelope. Silva clutches his heart.

“How you hurt me!” Severine hits his shoulder with her purse.

“Go make out with your boyfriend.”

Q calls to the two of them, “Would you like to join us for a pint?”

“At a _bar_?” Silva looks scandalized. Severine hits him again.

“Don’t be such a snob,” She looks over to Q. “I’d love to but I have to oversee cleanup. Perhaps another time.”

Silva reluctantly goes over to James, who smirks. “Time to show you what normal people do on a Saturday night.”

 

Nobody much remembers what happens next. James compares with Q and Eve the next day ( _late_ the next day, after their hangovers have had time to subside to a dull pounding instead of fucking _drills of death_ ) and they agree that there were definitely jello shots, and probably also a tequila chugging contest. With worms.

“I definitely saw more of your naked body than I wanted to,” Eve says over their group voicechat. “Both of you. All of you.”

James pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tell me nobody danced on a table, and I’ll be happy.”

“I don’t think so,” Eve confirms. Thank god.

James’ computer pings, and he winces. “One sec.”

Silva is smiling, bright and cheerful. “Oh good, you are up. I was thinking of taking you out for dinner.”

The thought of food still makes James’ stomach roll queasily; he’s been subsisting on orange juice for the past three hours. 

“No thanks,” he says. “After-hangover recovery. Ask me again tomorrow.” Then, as an afterthought: “Don’t you feel sick at all?”

“Well!” Silva smiles benevolently at him. “I do not get hangovers, so I would not know, hm?”

James pauses. “Fuck you,” he says cordially, and hangs up. Then he takes the others off hold.

“The bastard doesn’t get hangovers,” he tells them.

“Of fucking course not,” Q sighs.


	12. In which accidental fandom migration occurs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SORRY YOU GUYS, this is actually not really an update at all. Alex and I have kind of migrated to the Hannibal fandom? Smiley face? WE'RE SO SORRY. Supermarket AU has still got plans in the works, but we're easily distracted by shiny things.
> 
> Alex blames Kat for leaving for the Hobbit. And now both of us have hopped into the deep end with Hannibal. So, uh. Have a tiny snippet. We apologize (but actually we aren't sorry at all.)

“Hey,” Eve says. She’s looking over at the meat section. “So you know that guy, right?”

“What?” Q is playing Angry Birds on his phone.

“The guy, the butcher. You know, who looks like the guy with the scar?”

“Mm.”

“He’s pretty hot,” Eve says.

Q releases his bird early. It explodes. He puts the phone down. “What?”

“He’s hot,” Eve says. “You’re gay, I thought you’d understand.”

“I’m not gay!” Q yelps. “Besides, he looks _exactly_ like the asshole with the scar! Whatshisname, Le Chiffre? You never thought he was attractive!”

“That’s because he’s... oily.”

Q makes a face. “Thanks for that image. And Butcher Man isn’t oily?”

“He’s got amazing fashion sense,” Eve says. “You know, when he isn’t in his, uh, butchering outfit.”

James chooses this moment to walk by, ladened down with boxes of cereal. “He’s taken, you know. That twitchy guy that comes in on Tuesdays.”

“How the fuck did you even hear us,” Q hisses. James shrugs and walks on, unconcerned.

“Uh oh,” Eve says.

“What now,” Q says flatly. His life sucks. His life always sucks.

“I think he’s noticed us staring. He’s looking back.”

Q turns his head. It’s like the slow-motion scenes in movies, with the ominous music playing softly in the background. He imagines that he can hear the Jaws theme.

The butcher waves at them. Q and Eve wave back, weakly.

They turn back to each other, vaguely unsettled.

“Let’s never talk about this again,” Q suggests.

“Okay,” Eve agrees.

They part ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silva and James have totally had dinner at Butcher Man's apartment with Butcher Man and Twitchy Boyfriend. (/muffled screaming in the distance)
> 
> Also, Silva and Butcher Man absolutely trade fashion tips.


	13. In which Silva has to get the back seats of his Maserati replaced because of not-so-mysterious stains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK.

It happens on a Tuesday. 

When James isn’t working at Sainsbury’s he’s tinkering with his car or working out. Never let it be said that he doesn’t work to get that fine ass of his. Originally it was to get girls but lately, all its been getting is Silva. Its like women have a radar for “ass owned” and just aren’t interested in him anymore. No matter how frustrating it is, he’ll be damned before he asks Silva for regular sex. James can’t let him _win_.

And then Silva arrives in a Maserati Quattroporte and his already tenuous self control snaps like a rubber band lefy out too long in the sun.

Silva opens the back door to take out the cloth grocery bags (it’s environmentally friendly) and James is wrestling him into the back seat before he can straighten up.

“James, _what are you doing?_ ”

“This is your fault. None of the single mothers are giving me the time of day. And Q couched me. Again.”

“I am unsure about the women but Q was _not_ my fault.” Silva is frowning disapprovingly and if James wasn’t so sexually frustrated he’d leave on principle. Instead he grinds his hips against Silva’s and smirks when the bastard gasps.

Then Silva elbows him in the solar plexus. James whacks his head on the console box as he flinches aside, wheezing, and falls off into the footwell.

“Oops.” Silva’s voice is unrepentant. He props himself up on an elbow. James’ arm is still resting half-on the seat; Silva prods it with a finger. “Are you very hurt?”

“You could sound even a little bit concerned,” James coughs.

“Was _I_ the one who pushed my lover into the back seat of his car?” Silva asks the air.

“It’s a Maserati Quattroporte.” James sits up, still breathing hard. “I had to.”

“You are so easy,” Silva says fondly.

“Shut up.” James hauls him in, pulling the side door shut in a truly amazing feat of agility and foot contortionism. “Take your clothes off.”

Silva attempt to elbow him again, but James is too quick this time. “Let go, you heathen, this is a Prada--”

James pops a button and Silva stops.

“Oh,” he breathes in deeply. “Is that how it is?”

James arches as Silva grasps the back of his neck, fingers raking through his hair, to pull him in for a kiss. The angle is awkward, his pants riding up in a way that makes an already tight crotch space tighter, and Silva bites at his lips hard enough that James tastes blood.

He thinks vaguely that maybe they ought to have moved the front seats forward for more room. As it is he scrambles so he’s half on top of Silva’s thigh, one knee between his legs and a foot planted on the car floor for balance.

“Well.” Silva smirks, hair mussed and lips swollen. “At least you are predictable.”

James blinks his brain back online. His eyes narrow.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His voice come out low and rasping. Fuck.

“Nothing.” Silva smiles winningly. “We were talking about clothes, yes?”

“Whatever,” James mutters, and puts a hand down to feel the leather of the seats. Silva bring his thigh up between his legs and James hisses, grinding down, and then he has to kiss Silva again to shut the bastard up, his low-edged chuckle turning into a satisfied hum.

There’s a bit of rolling around. James’ shirt gets rucked up underneath his armpits, Silva’s hand hot on the skin of his waist, his back; Silva’s fly gets unzipped, and his shoe is lost somewhere in the depths. James is making low, urgent noises into Silva’s neck as the other man whispers sibilant words into his ear when there’s a muffled _crack_ sound.

And.

Wetness seeps through James’ clothing along his right hip, up to his stomach and down his leg, and--

“What?”

And.

In the end James stands clutching his head, bent over with regret.

 _”Stains,”_ he moans. “On the _seats_. Why the _fuck_ do you carry around a fountain pen full of _permanent fucking ink_ in your _pocket_ , god.”

Silva plucks at his khakis, fingertips coming away covered in blue.

“Perhaps if you didn’t decide to maul me.”

“I’m going to need a new pair of pants too,” James realizes. “That’s going to come out of my pay. Oh god, you’re going to need to get the seats replaced.”

“Calm yourself,” Silva suggests.

“I _ruined_ a _Maserati_ ,” James says. “I might have to go drown myself.”

“BOND,” Q roars from the shop entrance. “Your break has been over for fifteen minutes, get back in here.”

“Hell,” James says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex drew the thing! Isn't it great? :D


End file.
